Chapter 3 - The Men From Marisol’s Past
Marisol wanted to believe there was another explanation.
There was not.
By sunrise, Dante’s people had gathered enough information to make denial impossible.
Eric Dalton had been receiving payments from companies tied to Adrian Russo for almost four years.
Small amounts first.
Consulting fees.
Loan commissions.
Real-estate referrals.
Then larger transfers.
Marisol sat at Dr. Kaplan’s kitchen table while Rafe placed printed records in front of her.
She touched none of them.
“How?”
Rafe glanced at Dante.
Dante nodded.
“Tell her.”
“Your ex worked in commercial lending,” Rafe said. “He approved financing for shell companies Russo controlled.”
“I knew he handled business loans.”
“He also moved money.”
Marisol closed her eyes.
Eric had always loved telling her she did not understand finance.
Maybe because understanding it would have shown her exactly what he was doing.
“There’s more,” Rafe said.
“Of course there is.”
Rafe slid another page forward.
A signature.
Marisol recognized it immediately.
Her own.
Except she had never signed that paper.
“What is this?”
“Personal guarantee on a seven-hundred-thousand-dollar commercial loan.”
Her head lifted.
“No.”
“It defaulted.”
“No.”
“Someone prevented collection.”
“Who?”
“Victor Salazar.”
Marisol looked at Dante.
“Why would Victor protect me?”
Dante answered quietly.
“He wasn’t protecting you.”
“Then what?”
“He was keeping leverage.”
The truth began assembling itself.
Her father.
The mysterious loan.
Eric.
Victor.
The red folder labeled PROPERTY.
Marisol pushed back from the table.
“I need air.”
Dante followed her onto the porch.
Baltimore morning had begun quietly.
Joggers.
Delivery vans.
Ordinary lives continuing.
Marisol gripped the railing.
“I spent years thinking I was stupid.”
Dante said nothing.
“He told me every money problem was because I couldn’t budget. Every late payment. Every account. Every credit card I didn’t remember opening.”
Her voice tightened.
“And when I questioned him, he told everyone I was emotional.”
Dante leaned against the railing.
“He was preparing a defense.”
“For what?”
“If you discovered the fraud.”
She laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
Dante looked toward the street.
“Men like Eric survive by making the victim look unreliable before the victim knows there’s a crime.”
Marisol turned.
“You sound familiar with that.”
“I grew up around professionals.”
For once, his dry humor did not irritate her.
“What happens now?”
“We find out why Victor wants you.”
“You already know.”
“I know part.”
“What part?”
Dante looked at her.
“Your father copied something before he died.”
Marisol went still.
“What?”
“My father believed Mateo kept evidence.”
“Where?”
“No one found it.”
“And Victor thinks I have it?”
“Yes.”
“I was nineteen.”
“People have killed for weaker possibilities.”
She wrapped her arms around herself.
“My mother?”
“Protected.”
Marisol turned sharply.
“You sent men to her facility?”
“Two women.”
“Women?”
“Less alarming.”
She almost smiled.
“Armed?”
“Obviously.”
The smile disappeared.
“Your normal is terrifying.”
“I’m aware.”
A black sedan stopped at the curb.
A man stepped out holding an envelope.
Rafe approached him.
After a brief conversation, the courier left.
Rafe brought the envelope inside.
No stamp.
No return address.
Dante opened it.
A photograph fell onto the table.
Marisol picked it up.
Her mother.
Twenty years younger.
Standing beside Mateo.
And Victor.
Behind them was a warehouse.
Number 417 painted above a door.
Marisol looked at the brass key on the table.
“Same number.”
Dante nodded.
Inside the envelope was a handwritten note.
BRING THE DAUGHTER TO PIER 14.
MIDNIGHT.
COME ALONE.
OR THE OLD WOMAN FINISHES WHAT HER HUSBAND STARTED.
Marisol’s hands began to shake.
“My mother.”
“She’s safe,” Dante said.
“For now.”
“They don’t know where she is.”
“You hope.”
Dante looked at Rafe.
“Move her.”
“Already done.”
Marisol stared at him.
“You knew before telling me?”
“Yes.”
“You really do control everything.”
“No.”
His eyes held hers.
“If I controlled everything, you never would’ve found me chained to a pipe.”
Iron post, technically.
She let it go.
Dante picked up the photograph.
“Warehouse 417.”
“You recognize it?”
“No.”
Rafe did.
His expression shifted.
“What?”
The older man pointed.
“That building belonged to your father.”
Dante looked at him.
“Where?”
“Curtis Bay.”
“Still standing?”
“Should be.”
Marisol stared at the photograph.
“My father took me there once.”
Everyone looked at her.
“When?”
“I was maybe ten.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. He said he forgot paperwork.”
“Did you go inside?”
“Yes.”
“What do you remember?”
Marisol closed her eyes.
Dust.
The smell of wood.
Blue metal shelves.
Her father kneeling near an office desk.
Then giving her a quarter for the vending machine.
“One thing.”
Dante waited.
“There was a wall painted red.”
Rafe looked at Dante.
Dante understood.
“What?”
“Moretti warehouses used red walls behind concealed document safes.”
Marisol stared.
“You had secret walls?”
“My father distrusted banks.”
“You people are exhausting.”
Three hours later, they stood outside Warehouse 417.
Dante had insisted on coming.
Marisol had insisted that if he fainted, she would leave him.
Neither believed the other.
The building had been abandoned for years.
Inside, dust coated everything.
Rafe and two men checked the perimeter.
Marisol found the red wall.
Faded.
Peeling.
Still there.
Dante ran his fingers along the bricks.
“Look for something that doesn’t belong.”
Marisol studied the wall.
Nothing.
Then she remembered.
The quarter.
Her father had not sent her for soda.
The vending machine had been broken.
She had come back immediately.
And he had been standing right here.
“Wait.”
She walked toward an old electrical panel.
A tiny metal plate sat beneath it.
She scraped away paint.
A keyhole.
Dante handed her the brass key.
Marisol inserted it.
Turned.
The panel swung outward.
Inside was a narrow compartment.
Empty.
Her shoulders fell.
Then Dante reached deeper.
His fingers found something taped beneath the shelf.
A flash drive.
And a folded page.
Marisol opened it.
Mateo’s handwriting.
Mari,
If you ever find this, I failed to keep you far enough away.
Do not trust Victor.
Do not trust anyone who says the Morettis killed me.
The truth is in the ledger.
And forgive me.
Your father.
Marisol read it twice.
Her vision blurred.
Dante did not touch her.
He simply stood beside her.
That mattered more.
Rafe brought a laptop.
The drive was encrypted.
Dante tried several codes.
Nothing.
Marisol stared at the screen.
“My birthday.”
“No.”
“My mother’s?”
“No.”
She thought of Mateo.
His habits.
His favorite song.
His old baseball number.
Then she remembered what he told her every night before bed.
Siempre vuelve a casa.
Always come home.
She typed HOME.
Denied.
Then CASA.
Denied.
Dante watched.
“Maybe a date.”
Marisol looked at the photograph.
Warehouse 417.
She typed 0417.
The drive opened.
Folders appeared.
Transfers.
Names.
Photographs.
Police.
Judges.
Politicians.
Businesses.
And one folder labeled M.V.
Marisol clicked it.
A video file.
Her father appeared on screen.
Alive.
Seated in an office.
“If this recording is being watched,” Mateo said, “Victor Salazar betrayed the Moretti family, and I may already be dead.”
Marisol stopped breathing.
Mateo continued.
“Victor is not working alone.”
Dante leaned closer.
“He has a partner inside the family.”
The video flickered.
A photograph filled the screen.
Adrian Russo.
Dante’s uncle.
No surprise.
Then another photograph appeared.
A younger man stood beside him.
Marisol stared.
Dante did too.
The younger man was Eric Dalton.
Her future husband.
Except the date beneath the photograph was sixteen years old.
Marisol had not met Eric until eleven years ago.
“He knew my father?”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
The video resumed.
Mateo looked directly into the camera.
“If my daughter ever sees this, understand one thing.”
Marisol moved closer.
“I did not die because I discovered their money.”
Her heart stopped.
“I died because I discovered what they planned to do with Marisol.”
The screen went black.
A second file appeared.
Before anyone could open it, Rafe’s phone rang.
He answered.
His face drained of color.
“Boss.”
Dante turned.
“What?”
Rafe listened.
Then slowly lowered the phone.
“They found Dr. Kaplan’s house.”
Marisol’s stomach dropped.
“My mother?”
Rafe looked at her.
“She wasn’t there.”
Relief lasted less than one second.
Then he continued.
“But someone left a message.”
“What message?”
Rafe turned the phone screen around.
A live video filled it.
Marisol’s mother sat in a chair.
Alive.
Terrified.
May you like
Behind her stood Eric.
And beside him, smiling toward the camera, was Victor Salazar.
